


The Bitter Brew

by Alisanne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alisanne/pseuds/Alisanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus liked being anonymous, until being known proves more advantageous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bitter Brew

**Author's Note:**

> **Pairing:** Marcus Flint/Seamus Finnigan
> 
> **Author's Notes:** Written for Rarepair_Shorts' Numbers Game. I picked the 'hard' option where the mods assign pairings based on my random number selection. I will say some of the pairings generated were...challenging. :)
> 
> Thank you to my darling Sevfan for beta reading.

~

The Bitter Brew

~

The Bitter Brew was dark, quiet, exactly the way Marcus liked pubs. He was anonymous there, just another bloke drowning his sorrows with no one the wiser as to his identity. Well, he’d thought so anyway, until the bloody bartender, whose arse he’d been openly ogling, spoke his name. “Flint?” 

Marcus looked up, startled. “Who’re you?”

“The bartender.” The man’s lips quirked. “You realise you’re in a pub, right?” 

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “ _Paul’s_ the bartender.”

“Paul’s been sacked.” The new bartender, pale with freckles and bright blue eyes, grinned. “Got caught sampling the sauce, if you know what I mean.” 

“Who’re you?” Marcus asked. “And how do you know me?” 

“I’m Seamus Finnigan, and I know you because we attended Hogwarts together.” Finnigan wiped down the bar with the practiced moves of a seasoned bartender. “Although I was a few years behind you, _and_ in a different house, which is maybe why you don’t remember me.” His lips quirked. “Still, fit Quidditch captains are always...memorable, even if they are Slytherin.” 

Marcus stifled a sigh. “Right,” he muttered, standing. “I can take a hint.” 

Finnigan’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you going? You haven’t had a drink yet.” 

Blinking, Marcus stammered out, “I...I thought you were throwing me out, seeing as you brought up Houses and such.” 

Finnigan snorted. “I don’t care if you were in poop house,” he said bluntly. “All I care about is you can pay for your drinks.” He raised an eyebrow. “Can you?” 

“Yes.” 

Finnigan nodded. “Then what’ll you have?” 

Marcus ordered whisky, watching Finnigan prepare it efficiently. After receiving it, he sipped, eyeing Finnigan interacting with his customers. He ensured the ones who’d had a bit too much slowed down, and topped up the ones who needed refills. Along the way he chatted with people, cracking jokes. 

Sighing, Marcus stared into his drink. He’d never wanted to confide anything to Paul other than his drink order, but Finnigan had one of those faces that encouraged confession. _Bet he’s not interested in listening to me, though._

“What’s your story, then?” 

Startled, Marcus looked up into Finnigan’s blue eyes. “Huh?” 

“You look like you could use a friendly ear.” Finnigan shrugged. “But if you’d rather not--” 

“I was sacked today,” Marcus blurted, shaking his head as the enormity of it crashed down around him once more. “They said they didn’t want trouble, what with the war trials coming up, and seeing how everyone knows I’m Slytherin--” He paused, searching for words, bitterness welling up in his throat. “When I reminded them not all Slytherins were Death Eaters, they said it didn’t matter.” 

“ _Were_ you a Death Eater?” Finnigan asked bluntly. 

Mutely, Marcus pulled back his sleeve, showing Finnigan his unadorned left arm. 

Finnigan sighed. “I’d’ve taken your word for it.”

Marcus snorted. “No one takes anyone’s word about _that_ ,” he snapped. As Finnigan raised an eyebrow, he deflated. “Most people don’t ask. They assume we fought on the wrong side and we’re all pure-blood supremacists who don’t deserve a chance in life. Well I’m not. I’m not even a pure-blood! And I deserve a job and a life, even if everyone thinks I’m evil.” 

“I don’t.” Finnigan looked him up and down, assessing him. “We need a bouncer,” he said after a moment. “The...owner’s asked me to hire someone. You up for it?” 

Marcus blinked. “Just like that? You don’t know me.” 

Finnigan smiled. “I know you need a job and you’re not a Death Eater. Plus, you’re a regular, so you know the sort of crowd we get here. And, if it doesn’t work out, what have we lost?” 

“Don’t you have, I dunno, a friend you’d prefer to hire?”

Finnigan snorted. “I never hire friends. I don’t mix business with pl...friendship. So what do you say?” 

Marcus bit back a grin. “Yeah, all right. When do I start?” 

Reaching over, Finnigan plucked Marcus’ glass from his hand. “Right now. And there’ll be no drinking on the job.” 

Marcus grinned broke. “Yes, sir.” 

Finnigan’s lips twitched. 

Marcus sobered. “So what’s my job exactly?”

“Customer relations.” Finnigan deposited Marcus’ half full glass under the counter. “I’ll bring you some coffee and you can assume your post by the door. It’s your job to keep the peace, and you can use your judgement on the best way to do that. If you spot troublemakers and you want to keep ’em out, I’ll back you. But remember, the more customers, the better we do, and the longer you keep this job, so keep that in mind.” 

Marcus nodded. “Got it.” 

“Good.” Reaching for the coffee pot, Finnigan poured Marcus a cup. “Sugar? Milk?” 

Marcus shook his head. “Nope.” 

Finnigan smiled faintly. “Just the way I take it.” He handed him the mug. “Go on, then.” 

As Marcus took up his position at the door, he realised he had the perfect position from which to watch Finnigan work. Something he hadn’t realised until then that he’d probably enjoy. Sipping his coffee, he smiled. Things were definitely looking up. 

The week passed quickly. And every evening about nine, Maureen, the chef, brought him a sandwich and some chips. “Boss thought you’d be hungry,” she said the first night. 

“How much?” Marcus had asked. He was watching every Sickle, after all. 

Maureen smirked. “It’s one of the perks of the job.” 

As Marcus’ stomach chose that very moment to rumble, he’d flushed, accepting the food with a mumbled ‘thanks’. 

“You also got a fifteen minute break every night,” she’d then said. “There’s an alley out back that’s quiet.” 

And so that was where Marcus went on his breaks. It did prove quiet, and as Marcus leaned against the wall and ate every night, he would exhale, savouring the silence and, oddly, thinking about Finnigan. He could hear the buzz of people in the pub, but it was distant, faint.

“How’s your first week on the job been?” 

Marcus jumped, almost dropping his bag of chips. In all his time there, no one else had ever come out to join him. 

“Sorry.” Finnigan seemed sincere. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s all right,” Marcus said gruffly. “And it’s been fine. I’m enjoying it, actually. “He hesitated. “I refused to let some people in tonight. I dunno if you saw--” 

“I saw.” Finnigan shut the back door and the hum of pub voices faded. “Good decision. Those lads were looking for trouble.” 

Marcus relaxed. “Yeah. I recognised the look. I was a troublemaker when I was younger.”

Finnigan smiled. “Weren’t we all?” 

“I suppose.” Marcus stuffed the rest of his chips in his mouth. “Right. I’ll head back to my post--”

“You have five minutes,” Finnigan said. “And the boss isn’t that much of a stickler that he’ll begrudge you a minute or two. I thought we could talk.” 

Crumpling up the greasy chip bag, Marcus tossed it into a nearby bin. “Yeah, all right. About what?” 

“You.” Finnigan gave him a slow once-over. “Are you seeing anyone right now?” 

Marcus blinked. Just like a Gryffindor to come right out with it. “No. You?”

“No.” Finnigan smiled. “Got someone in mind, though. A coworker.”

Marcus licked his lips as Finnigan moved closer. “You sure the boss won’t mind?” he asked. 

“Positive.” Finnigan sounded very sure, and as he leaned in and kissed Marcus, Marcus’ questions left his mind.

“Who is this boss of ours, anyway?” Marcus asked as they caught their breath minutes later. “And are you sure he won’t mind...this?” 

Finnigan chuckled. “He won’t.” 

Marcus sighed. “But how can you--?” 

“He _won’t_.” Finnigan coughed as Marcus stared at him. “Fine. I know because...I’m the boss. I own this place.” 

“You?” Marcus went cold. “So what, this was all a joke or a test? You wanted to see how I’d do before you told me--” 

“I didn’t want it to colour things,” Finnigan interrupted. “You were already on edge. I thought it’d be best to ease you into things.” 

Marcus crossed his arms. “So did I pass the test?” 

Finnigan grinned. “That you did.” He sighed when Marcus simply continued glaring at him. “Don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t going to keep you in the dark forever.”

“Anything else you need to tell me while you’re coming clean?” Marcus asked, tone dry. “Are you married to Chef Maureen? Are the busboys your kids?” 

Finnigan snorted. “Definitely not married to Maureen,” he murmured. “And I’ve no kids. After all, as I just demonstrated, I’m bent, just like you.” 

Marcus sighed. “Guess it’s a bit late to try to hide it now.” 

“I knew it first day.”

Marcus frowned. “What? How?” 

“The way you checked out me arse.” Finnigan grinned.

Marcus huffed. “What about your rule about never mixing business and pleasure?” 

Finnigan shrugged and as he clasped Marcus’ hand and pulled him closer, he whispered, “Haven’t I ever told you me other motto? Rules are made to be broken.” 

~


End file.
